Silvery Revenge
by Socrates7727
Summary: After the war, Harry struggles with his emotions and his recovery. He's moody and bitter most of the time which pushes away the majority of his friends. Good thing Malfoy isn't technically his friend... HPDM drarry for the IWSC round 5!


AN I do not own HP or any of the characters! Written for Round 5 of the IWSC writing competition! Enjoy!

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Story Title: Silvery Revenge

School and Theme: Mahoutokoro - Zonko's Joke Shop: Look at fun and pranks in the wizarding world.

Special Rule: Incorporate the colour grey and the meaning behind it in your story - Depression

Main Prompt: [Genre] Romance

Additional Prompts: [Word] Revenge, [Setting] An empty classroom

Year: Two

Wordcount: 3139

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Harry knew it was stupid, but he didn't care. He didn't give a single knut whether there were cameras hiding in the darkness or if the rest of his fellow Eighth Years would remember this tomorrow—he just wanted to feel something. Anything, even a hangover, would be better than the apathy in his chest.

He wanted to care. In all honesty, he'd been trying to care until about an hour ago. He'd tried to focus on his conversation with Ron and Hermione, he'd done grounding exercises, and he'd even refused another round of shots when Seamus had offered—but it was to no avail. With every word someone said, he felt himself slipping away. Second by second, the grandfather clock across the Eighth Year common room severed every fragile, silken connection between his mind and his body. He knew he was detaching, maybe even disassociating, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Caring was hard. All he ever did was care—the funerals, the trials, the weddings, even the bloody articles for the Prophet—and it was too much. Sometimes, in his more self-aware moments, he liked to imagine that he had a well dug deeply into his chest, full of water and sympathy and affection. He would sit by that well for hours, doling out buckets of concern to anyone who asked. But, by the end of the day, when he peered down into the darkness, there was nothing but dirt to give himself. No energy, no worry, and no love. Just apathy.

Which, he supposed, was why he was here: sitting alone in a crowded common room, watching his friends drink and laugh like the teenagers that they were. Surrounded by friends and conversation, but completely indifferent to it. In the beginning, right after the war had ended, he'd seen the world in shades of black and white. The people in it were his spots of color—people he'd saved, people who cared about him, even just random strangers living their lives in peace now that the fighting was done. He'd loved them, and he'd coped by surrounding himself with them.

But now, the people were grey too. Harry could look at people like Hermione or Ron and he could understand, logically, that he should care about them and understand their pain. They'd lived through most of it together, hadn't they? Days turned into weeks, though, and then months, until he couldn't look at his best friends without being filled with a deep sense of bitterness. They were just more people he had to take care of—just more vacuums of emotional labor that he didn't feel equipped to handle.

He resented them for that. And, most days, he resented them for the way they could suck the color out of the rest of his world without even trying. They had more control over his life than he did, and they didn't even realize it.

"Potter, a word?" It was Draco, though he wasn't surprised that the blond had picked up on his mood. Survivors tended to be hyper-aware like that, he'd noticed, and most people in the room had probably noticed his scowl, if nothing else. They'd all given up trying to get him out of these funks a long time ago, though.

"Yeah, sure." He wasn't really agreeing, per se, as much as he was just passively allowing this turn of events. Draco didn't seem to care why he was following, though, as long as he was. The Slytherin led him out of the Eighth Year common room and towards the Astronomy Tower.

Harry knew what he was doing. This wasn't the first time they'd played out this little dynamic, and it'd become more and more frequent as his friends gave up on trying to fix his permanent mood. Every time Draco caught him moping—provided they weren't in class, or otherwise busy—he dragged them both to the spiraling staircase that led to the Astronomy classroom. Professor Sinistra had gone on medical leave, for the time being, and Astronomy didn't seem to be a high priority subject to the Ministry so no replacement had been sent. Therefore, the classroom was always empty.

No one ever wanted to climb all the stairs it took to get to the top. Even for someone fresh out of a battle with the Dark Lord, that many flights of stairs were enough to take his breath away and Draco knew it. Draco also seemed to know that the physical exhaustion would wear down his bitterness one step at a time. And that, once they'd reached the top, the ache and burning in his muscles would force him to come back to himself and be at least semi-present in the moment with him.

"You drag me up here for some kind of revenge?"

Draco snorted, dragging their usual desk over to the large observation windows and transfiguring it into a couch.

"Naturally." This time, though, Harry was aware enough to hear the sarcasm in his tone. It was no secret—to anyone—that he and Draco had become closer after the war and, as much as people didn't like it, they wanted to deal with Harry's moods even less. So, they mostly left it alone and let Draco deal with him whenever he hit a new low. Which was often.

No. Harry shook his head, trying to redirect his thoughts away from that path. It would just spiral back down and Draco would make him climb the stairs again or something, which he vehemently didn't want to do. Digging his nails into his palms, he forced a deep breath and moved to join Draco on their couch.

"Tell me what you're thinking." His eyes flicked up unconsciously at the voice, meeting Draco's in the dim moonlight. Those rings of silver seemed to twinkle at him, for a second, as if Draco knew something he didn't, but he also didn't particularly care. He loved looking into Draco's eyes. It was the only grey he actually liked because the silver seemed to pulse and dance with life in a way Harry never felt anymore. But he wasn't going to say any of that.

"I'm tired of dealing with people today."

Draco nodded, but Harry didn't doubt for a moment that he'd gotten both meanings somehow.

"What would help?"

Harry shrugged the way he always did. He didn't know what would help, or if anything even _could_ help. If he had known, he would have done it himself. That was the thing Hermione never seemed to understand: if he knew how to fix these moods, he would have damn well fixed them by now!

But he didn't know, and Draco never seemed to expect him to. Their relationship was strange, to say the least, and Harry could think of a few things that usually eased his frustration with himself, but he wasn't going to suggest them. If he was the one to suggest it, it was too real. They weren't dating; they weren't exactly friends, and whatever they were was too fragile to withstand even a tiny change in routine. So, Harry said nothing and trusted that Draco already knew.

"Come here." He didn't move, but that was part of their routine too. Draco was good at reading his emotions—even when he himself couldn't feel them or recognize them—and Harry had enough faith in their routine to let it play out.

"I said come here." That time, the blond's voice had lowered an octave or two and the notes of the words resonated in his chest. He turned on the couch and moved closer, as directed.

Absentmindedly, he wondered what Draco would decide for his treatment today. The blond seemed to understand what he meant when he described the world as grey, and he was very adept at changing that little piece of reality.

When he decided that Harry was anxious, he would cast a temporary hair-lengthening charm and have Harry braid it over and over again as they talked. It would turn his world purple with calm. When the verdict was sad, he would tuck himself behind Harry on the couch and drape the Gryffindor in his limbs until they were both crying. Usually, for no particular reason. Their tears made the world blue for a time.

When Harry detached or felt hollow inside, kissing Draco was the only thing that ever helped. They weren't together—which was why Draco had to initiate it, because this was an exchange and not a relationship—but they kissed like they'd been together for decades. It made the world pink with something close to love. Most often, Harry was just exhausted. He didn't sleep much, and the nightmares interrupted whatever rest he did manage to get, so he was often tired. When that was the case, Draco would sprawl out on the couch and pull Harry mostly on top of him and they would sleep. The world turned soft and green in his dreams.

But, on rare occasions, Draco decided that Harry was angry. On those days, Draco would provoke him and shock him with relatively harmless little jinxes until Harry snapped, and they ended up rolling around on the floor in a mess of fists and limbs. Draco always held his own, but never hurt him. He often got hurt, though, and even if they healed the damage immediately after, Harry couldn't help thinking that one day, Draco might hold a grudge. One day, he might lure Harry away like this for revenge.

"Harry." It was his first name, now that they were alone, but the word still ricocheted dangerously between the empty desks. First names felt too intimate and yet not enough.

"Draco," he mimicked, keeping their eyes locked. The blond scoffed at his response, but Harry was too focused on watching the way the silver melted and swirled like liquid mercury.

"I asked you why you're angry at yourself." And then, suddenly, Harry _was_ angry with himself. It happened like that a lot—more than he liked to admit—where he wasn't aware of the emotion until Draco called it by name. Now, though, he was furious.

"Because I shouldn't feel this way." Over time, talking to Draco like this had become easier. In the beginning, the blond had had to give him yes or no statements and figure him out like a game of twenty questions. Now, he could at least answer in little fragments of a phrase he thought might be true.

"Why not?" As always, Draco didn't argue with him or question the validity of the emotion. Instead, he sought to understand, and Harry appreciated that, even if he never said it.

"Because everything's fine now. Because the people who are dead have been dead for months, if not years, and I already grieved and went to their funerals. Because the world is finally better and everyone's safe but instead of enjoying it, all I get is apathy." Draco nodded, humming under his breath in acknowledgment.

"You know, human brains are very interesting. We have the ability to 'turn off' trauma in the moment because there are other priorities—like the war—and then we forget about it until it finally hits us. Usually, it's once we're finally safe that we can begin to process." The blond's voice was still light and fairly free from emotion, like he was making a clinical observation, rather than explaining Harry's own emotions to him. Harry didn't exactly mind, though.

"It feels like punishment for being happy." Draco winced. If anyone else had been there with them, Harry was sure they would have thought he'd hexed the blond for how pained he suddenly looked.

"Harry, no…" There was more, but Draco's voice broke and then tears were slipping out of those beautiful silver eyes. Instinctively, Harry reached forward and brushed them away.

"I'm sorry." And he kind of was, actually, which was a rare contrast to his usual numbness because he couldn't help focusing on the fact that he'd made Draco cry. Merlin, he was such a horrible person…

"Harry, no," the blond finally tried again, taking his hand in his own. "No. You deserve to be happy, just like you deserve to feel safe and you deserve to feel loved. This isn't a punishment. I know it probably doesn't feel fair right now but please try to remember you're only processing this stuff now because you _are_ safe and loved."

Harry swallowed hard. He honestly didn't know what to make of the word 'loved' from Draco's mouth, let alone to describe him, and he floundered in the sudden stillness.

Half of him wished they were in any other classroom—they would all be empty at this time of night, even—but the Astronomy classroom always felt a little extra empty. Like, instead of catching the room in a pause of its everyday bustle, they'd found one that was completely separate from reality. It seemed impossible that students had ever sat at these desks, or that anyone besides themselves had ever breathed this air. Because this classroom was _theirs_.

"I thought you brought me up here because of last time." Draco was still crying, still holding his hand and clearly trying to control himself, but he still laughed in surprise.

"Last time? Why?" Harry had thought that part was obvious. Last time had been one of the rare angry times, and he'd hexed and bruised Draco until neither of them could stand. It had been the worst one yet and, even though Draco had cast shield after shield and they'd healed everything immediately after, Harry had still assumed it had gone too far. He'd thought Draco would be angry, at the very least.

"Because I hurt you. I thought you wanted revenge." Draco laughed again, though it didn't sound right coming through the tears. He rubbed at his cheeks with his sleeve, but then he was cupping Harry's cheek and it took all of the Gryffindor's willpower not to lean into the contact.

"You didn't hurt me; I'm fine, see? And since you seem so caught up on the idea of me wanting revenge, I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise. Instead, I'll tell you that this is my revenge." Harry braced and waited for the slap, but it didn't come. Draco was just calmly running his thumb back and forth over Harry's cheek bone, squeezing his hand now and then.

"What's your revenge?" That laugh was back, but it sounded a little better now that Draco wasn't actively crying.

"This," he answered, as if it was obvious. "Telling you that you're safe, that you're loved, and that it's okay to feel things. This is my revenge. Consider us even." Harry couldn't help it. He leaned into Draco's palm—their signal—and he welcomed the lips that pressed against his own. Merlin, he would never get tired of kissing Draco. Their rhythm was easy—familiar—and he relaxed into the comfort like he'd never needed anything else.

"Harry…" Regrettably, Harry let the blond break away, but he relished the way Draco pressed their foreheads together, keeping their faces close. "You _are_ safe, okay? I know you're on edge and you're hyper-vigilant right now, but it will get easier and you _are_ safe now. You're loved, too."

He couldn't help it. The sound escaped his mouth before he could stop it and he snorted, very clearly disagreeing with that last statement.

"Yeah, right. By who?" It didn't seem like a ridiculous question—after all, even his closest friends had been distancing themselves from his moodiness lately and Hermione was still mad he wouldn't see a mind healer—but the way Draco looked at him said it was the stupidest thing he'd ever said.

"By _who?"_ Draco repeated, gawking at him like he'd just asked who Voldemort was. "By everyone, you git! McGonagall thinks of you as her son, first of all, and I know the Weasleys think of you as family. Ron and Hermione and all your other Gryffindors would do anything for you if they thought it might make you smile. Hell, most of the school would love you if you gave them a chance to know you!"

"And you?" Draco froze, his face frowning a bit but also relaxing in a way that said it wasn't angry. Slowly, the blond took in a deep breath and let it out.

"Yes, and me. I love you, Harry, more than you know, and I know _exactly_ how it feels to be where you are right now. I'm sorry that you have to do this—really, I am—and Merlin knows you don't deserve it, but that's not how it works, is it? Life's never fair like that. But know that you are safe, you are _loved_, and I'll be here to help you however I can for as long as you want me."

"Promise?" Harry didn't realize he was crying, or that he'd made his way into Draco's lap, until he heard how weak his own voice sounded against the blond's robes.

"I promise, Harry. You are not alone and you _are_ loved." His body laughed, even if he didn't understand why. It was still so ridiculous to hear those words and to hear them from Draco Malfoy, of all people. But he wanted to believe them, and he wanted them to be true. And, as he thought about it, he realized that he _cared_ whether or not they were true. He cared that Draco loved him, and that the blond had had the nerve to say it to him, and he cared that someone understood what the greyness felt like.

"You're really not very good at this whole revenge thing, Malfoy." But, for once, that last name didn't put any distance between them. Draco laughed, shaking his body with residual motion because of how close they were, and smoothed his hair.

"No, I suppose I'm not. It's a good thing you love me anyway, though, right?" If Harry hadn't known the blond as well as he did, or if he hadn't been pressed close enough to hear the frantic racing of Draco's heart, he might have thought it was a joke. It sounded like a joke outright, but he knew better. They weren't in a relationship—or maybe they were now? But Draco had said 'I love you', and Harry hadn't said it back.

"Yeah, it's a good thing I love you anyway." Instantly, any tension lingering between them evaporated. Draco kissed him, short and sweet, but they were both crying and the silence of the empty classroom—of _their_ empty classroom—didn't feel so isolating now. Instead, it felt safe. Like they'd managed to find a little cocoon among the chaos of Hogwarts and they'd made it their safe haven. For the first time in a long time, Harry could both see and feel the other colors in the room, starting with those mercury, silver eyes.

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Thank you so much for reading! Reviews mean the world!


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